The Last of the Bacon
by Mosteyn
Summary: A story of Sybil, Tom and a bacon sandwich. I'm making no apologies for the fact that this is a very silly bit of nonsense :-


**Sybil, Tom and the Last of the Bacon**

Sybil Branson, four months pregnant, sat and chewed her lip in her kitchen. The nausea of of the first few months had gone, her breasts had seemed to expand overnight (much to her husband's evident delight) and she was steadily losing her waist. She'd abandoned her restrictive corset as the nurse in her couldn't think it was a good thing, but could still do up most of her clothes, even if they were a little tight. Tom seemed to like her new voluptuous shape, as she would often catch him studying her body appreciatively when he thought she wouldn't notice.

But as it changed and grew, it became less familiar to her, stranger and liable to spring all sorts of surprises. Like the hunger. Sybil had always known, although would never admit, that she was rather greedy, but it was as if the baby growing inside her had inherited this trait already. She was hungry nearly all the time. Like now.

It was half past three in the afternoon. She's had lunch with Tom's mother and Mrs Branson, eager for her daughter-in-law to keep her strength up, had fed her well. She couldn't possibly be hungry. But she was. And she had a terrible craving for bacon.

She knew there was some bacon in the larder. She knew this because Tom had bought it home last night, especially for breakfast on Saturday. It was his one treat to himself - a decent cooked breakfast on a Saturday morning, which he would prepare, frying up eggs and bacon whilst singing happily. It was a ritual that had been established early in their marriage when it became apparent Tom was particular about the way his eggs were cooked and that Sybil just couldn't get it right. So weekend breakfasts were his domain, Sybil happy to sit and wait for a plate to appear in front of her.

She tried very hard not to think of the bacon, sitting there on its plate in the cool of the larder, wrapped in greaseproof paper. She tried to think of cheese, but she could almost taste the sweet saltiness of the bacon on her tongue, and thoughts of cheese vanished. There was nothing for it. She had to have it. She needed that bacon. The baby needed that bacon. She'd just have to explain things to her husband when he came home. Maybe she could tell him it had gone off - a very good reason to use the lot.

So before she could stop herself, the pan was on the stove, the six rashers were sizzling away, leaking their clear, fragrant fat and the kitchen began to smell heavenly. She cut two doorstops of bread and spread them with golden irish butter, right up to the crusts. Then she layered the rashers on their golden bed, popped the two halves together and squashed the soft bread down, satisfyingly.

She didn't bother cutting it up into dainty pieces. Her mother and grandmother would have been horrified if they saw what she did next - namely pick the whole thing up in both hands, careful not to let the bacon fall out, and take a large bite. It was at this point she heard a key in the front door.

"Sybil ? I got off early ! MacIver never turned up for the interview….."

He wandered into the kitchen to find his wife with her mouth full and holding a sandwich that seemed more fitting for a riveter from the docks than a delicately brought up young woman. She looked guilty and there was a tell tale smell hanging in the air.

"You ate the bacon."

Caught red handed, she decided to brazen it out and carried on chewing her mouthful.

Tom hurried to the larder and open the door.

"You ate ALL the bacon ?'

She turned to him and tried to look contrite.

"I was hungry…."

"You had lunch with Mam ! You couldn't possibly have been hungry after that ! Let me have some," he whined, "I'm starving, I missed lunch"

"There's some cheese….."

"I don't want cheese", he said sulkily, "I was looking forward to that bacon. Please, Sybil, I'm hungry…."

"But I'm eating for two now !"

"Eating for two elephants, more like," he said, under his breath. He made a grab for the plate, but she was too quick for him.

"No !" she cried, sweeping it up and retreating to the other side of the kitchen with it. She took another bite, not taking her eyes off him.

Tom decided he needed to exert his authority as head of the household.

"Give me that sandwich "

She gave his request due consideration.

"No"

"What sort of a wife," he began, "steals food from her poor, hard working husband, who slaves away all the hours god sends to put it on the table in the first place ? Food he has been looking forward to all week ?"

"What man," she shot back, "takes the food from the mouth of his unborn child ?"

Tom tried and failed to find the logic in this argument. So, grown man that he was, he descended into a pet, folding his arms crossly, saying

"Well you can't love me very much if you won't share your sandwich with me"

Sybil suddenly realised that if she had a son, this was exactly what he would look like when she told him off. She looked at him impassively.

"Maybe I don't."

Tom's face fell

"Maybe," she said thoughtfully, "I married you for your money"

This idea was so patently ridiculous that they both burst out laughing. Sybil took a knife and cut the remaining sandwich into two (unequal) halves and offered her husband (the smaller) one. He helped himself to the larger, took a bite and chewed, grinning. Then holding the sandwich in one hand, drew his wife in with the other and kissed her.

"Mmmmm, you taste of bacon….. and you've got bacon grease all over your chin…."

She giggled and embraced him, laying her cheek on his chest.

"Hey ! Hey ! Don't put your greasy chin all over my shirt….." he pushed her off and inspected it "Oh, look what you've done ! There's a dirty great greasy mark there now….."

Sybil raised an eyebrow. It turned out that bacon wasn't the only thing that the pregnancy was making her hungry for.

"Well, you'd better take it off, then. Right now"

Tom looked up and caught the expression in her eyes. He didn't need to be told twice.

And in the kitchen, the remains of a half eaten sandwich went cold on a plate, the fat congealing and the bacon going hard. It stayed there for some while, until the lady of the house sauntered into the kitchen in just her dressing gown, tutted and scraped it into the bin.


End file.
